Between the angry waves outside turning the portholes into front-loading Maytag washers, and the chief steward inside standing at an angle that should only be possible in one of those tourist mystery spots, the lone calming influence in the dining room was a set of group photos from prior voyages.

Other passengers had, in fact, survived this trip.

We were somewhere near Newfoundland, crossing the turbulent North Atlantic on a freighter and bound for Cleveland - two things not at the top of everyone's to-do list - along with 19 Polish crewmates and 22,000 tons of steel. My wife and I had boarded the Isadora in IJmuiden, Netherlands, committing to the 16-day voyage in large part because, frankly, I'm afraid to fly. (We had circled the globe using only ground transport, and I was determined to finish without becoming airborne.)

There also was an element of romance: experiencing the sea without the distractions - all-you-can-eat buffets, belly-flop contests, tuxedo dinners with the captain and cheesy lounge acts - that come with typical cruises. The only promises on the Isadora were fresh air, relaxation, hearty Polish meals in the company of the crew and an appreciation for hardworking seafarers.

And, of course, adventure.

"Not exactly the Queen Mary," deadpanned my wife upon seeing the Isadora for the first time, confirming that my enthusiasm for the trip was not as contagious as I'd hoped.

'Tramp' freighter

The Isadora is considered a "tramp" freighter because the company sells her services to the highest bidder; after unloading the steel in Cleveland, the bosses would entertain all offers. Returning empty was not an option. As with many other freighters, the Isadora runs a side business carrying a few travelers, although passengers aren't exactly revenue generators. (The ship burns $500 in fuel every hour. That's about six hours on our dime.)

Part of the adventure is just getting on board. The PZM Polish Steamship Co. runs tramp freighters between Europe and North America, but you choose a departure for either the first or second half of a month, and they call a few days beforehand with the actual date. We stayed in Haarlem, 20 minutes outside IJmuiden, until we were notified.

While my wife was concerned about pirates (I explained that Somalia is halfway around the world), I was more worried about seasickness, especially after the first mate explained that our cargo of steel causes the ship to roll more in the open ocean.

For better or worse, our lot was cast. We were posted on the manifest, human baggage to be delivered to Ohio. That evening, while still in port, the engines rumbled.

"Whoa, we're moving," my wife groaned.

I jumped up, threw on clothes and scampered into the damp night air to watch our departure. The crew threw off the lines and, after a few blasts of the horn, the Isadora began threading through the harbor into the inky blackness of the North Sea. Hollow clanging from invisible buoys rang in the night, while the forlorn sound of the foghorn grew increasingly muffled. Chilled, I returned to the cabin.

English Channel

On the bridge, the fluorescent radar screen swept through hundreds of blips, as the first officer kept steady watch with binoculars. It was our first day and the freighter steamed through the busy English Channel under sunny skies, eventually leaving the shelter of the continent.

As the chalky cliffs of Dover slid by our starboard bow, the emptiness of the sea was interrupted by the appearance of dolphins. They surfed our wake while chattering away, then hopscotched south across the waves, probably eager to escape the advancing winter.

At the invitation of the chief engineer, we donned protective earphones and slid backward down the grated steps for a tour of the engine room. (Fortunately, three officers spoke English, since my Polish was limited to the standard greeting cheshch.)

Pipes and conduits crisscrossed the floor and ceiling like in Willy Wonka's factory, only with everything pea-soup green and labeled in Polish. Engineers in powder blue overalls monitored gauges and penciled remarks in notepads.

Far below, in a trough of briny water and grease, the propeller spun at 100 rpm. As the vibrations from the engine tickled our feet, we ascended a final stairway - and surprised the cook as he slid freshly baked bread from the oven.

A few days in, the captain stopped by our table, interrupting a lunch of chicken noodle soup, kielbasa and mashed potatoes.

'Rough seas'

"We will have some rough seas," he pronounced, his right hand chopping the table for emphasis and causing a tea cup to wobble, "in two or three days as we near Newfoundland."

I thought of the movie "The Perfect Storm" as I passed the mustard and avoided the steely gaze of my wife.

"Later today, we will have emergency evacuation drill. Assemble in the bridge when you hear the alarm," the captain added, a little too enthusiastically, I thought.

When the jarring alarm eventually went off, we hustled up to the rain-washed deck with our inch-thick, fluorescent-orange neoprene survival suits.

"Single file into the pod," the first mate shouted over the shrieking wind. Like a well-trained border collie, he herded the crew and passengers into the escape boat, which was perched perilously three stories above the angry sea. Amid scattered conversations in Polish, we buckled into the plastic seats, feeling a little like Alan Shepard on the launch pad.

I was pretty sure this would be tough to explain to my insurance company if there were an accident.

That night, after a dinner of freshly baked rye bread, pork cutlets and sauerkraut, the captain invited us to his cabin to sample Polish culture (specifically, Polish vodka) and listen to American jazz. The cabin swayed as we made conversation, the captain topped our glasses with spirits from his homeland and Dave Brubeck jammed through the speakers.

You don't get nights like this on a Carnival ship.

'Whales!'

As we approached Newfoundland, the shelter of the continent provided relief from the turbulent waters, although a fall bite in the air chased away any illusions of an Indian summer. A blanket of fog carpeted the sea as squawking seagulls wheeled overhead and slid effortlessly along the vessel. Soon the melting fog revealed hillsides splashed in reds and yellows.

"Whales off starboard!" the first mate hollered. He pointed to an unsettled patch of water, where grayish objects blew geysers of mist into the morning air. Passing the binoculars, we observed a pod of white Beluga whales congregating near shore.

Eventually, we entered the stretch of locks and canals on the Saint Lawrence Seaway. Every eight hours, expert local pilots were brought on board to guide us through the waterways. Terse commands echoed throughout the bridge - "Port 10," "Dead slow," "Hard starboard," "Aft thrust" - as the Isadora squeezed into the narrow locks. Each time we moored, the lock doors were cranked closed, water gushed in as if from an underground spring, and the vessel groaned and scraped against the concrete wall as it rose 20 to 40 feet in a matter of minutes.

To a sound track of honking geese, the ship threaded the narrow autumn-splashed waterways of the Thousand Islands region. We cruised past islands sprinkled with summer cottages and waved to people on shore.

The ship arrived in Cleveland and berthed, although because passengers would not disembark until morning, we savored our last bottle of wine during dinner with the captain - under significantly less-choppy conditions than the Maytag and Mystery Spot meal.

In the end, I didn't suffer mal de mer nor were we hijacked, but we did have an adventure that we agreed was the best of our global jaunt. (Although it's unlikely that beef tongue, pickled herring and tripe soup will find their way unto my plate anytime soon.)

We disembarked after breakfast, but not before farewells and photographs. We descended the swaying gangplank as the crew leaned on the railing and waved, the latest souls in the ancient tradition of mariners moving cargo.

As we walked away, the ship buzzed with activity, the crew eager to lighten Isadora's load, and as we rounded the corner of a warehouse, I steadied my wobbly land-legs and took a last look.

"Maybe not a queen but certainly a lady," I said.

After a while, we realized we hadn't taken a group photo like those in the dining room - although it's much easier to see, in hindsight, why the passengers in those photos were smiling.

If you go: The Isadora carries up to eight passengers and departs from IJmuiden, the largest port in northern Netherlands, with stops in Cleveland; Burns Harbor, Ill.; and, occasionally, Duluth, Minn., and Milwaukee. Passage can be booked in either direction or round trip. The trip described runs about $1,800 per person, double occupancy, which includes all meals. For information, go to www.cruisepeople.co.uk/pzm.htm.